The House of Commons had bowed, the tea had returned, and the monarchy had shattered. Now, under a stormy London sky laced with streaks of electric violet from Gwen's customized thunder drones, Kara Zor-El stood at the summit of her new obsidian-plated Buckingham Palace. Elvis Presley stepped forward from the golden stairway behind her, his boots echoing on a floor tiled in compressed gold coins and armored sapphires. Dressed in glittering gold regalia, a velvet cape draped from his shoulders, and a diamond-encrusted microphone gripped in hand, he raised his voice to the crowd gathered across the city square.
"Hail to the Queen, baby!" Elvis boomed, the air vibrating with deep baritone and sheer cultural dominance.
He lowered the crown—a flaming circlet forged from melted scepters and stained-glass fragments of the ruined Westminster Abbey—and placed it on Kara's head. Excalibur, sheathed across her back, pulsed with divine energy, casting a heavenly glow over her crimson and black coronation dress.
In a velvet-lined four-star hotel suite across town, the real royal family sat huddled before a flickering flat screen. The Queen Consort sniffed disdainfully. "This tea isn't even Harrods brand."
King Charles clutched a bottle of Pantene Pro-V to his chest like a dying relic. "Where is the L'Oréal!?"
Prince William stared blankly at the screen, slack-jawed. "We've truly lost everything."
Kara raised Excalibur high as villainous operatic music composed by Jean and psychically enhanced by Wanda echoed across the rooftops.
"You've lost your tea. You've lost your telly. And if you do not obey me…" she paused, her voice dropping to a whisper edged in steel, "you will lose your fish and chips."
Gasps broke across Parliament like the crack of doom.
The Speaker of the House, still trembling in the back row, stood and shouted, "All hail Queen Kara! All hail the Queen of Fish and Chips!"
And then it began—the evil renovation of England. Lava flowed through the newly-dug moat encircling Buckingham Palace. Mechanical dragons perched atop black obsidian parapets breathed fire on schedule, synchronized by rogue AI. Walls of spiked golden steel rose at the country's borders, cutting off England from the world. Anti-aircraft lasers and railguns shimmered on cliffside towers, programmed to vaporize everything from hostile jets to curious pigeons. Missile silos spun slowly into place, and one aimed at the moon bore the name "Plan Q: Blow Up Moon for Drama" in hand-painted scarlet letters.
London's streets were repaved with polished black marble veined with blood-red and flame-gold. British flags were replaced with Kara's sigil: a neon violet flame coiled around a serpent-shaped sword. Pubs were now state-owned. Each served only Kara-approved fish and chips—salted in villainy, wrapped in napkins printed with encrypted messages meant to psychologically destabilize international tourists.
The BBC crumbled under the weight of a soulless AI anchor who now delivered nightly terror in a monotone voice glitching between Oxford and Yorkshire accents. "Today… no tea… again. We… apologize… for your… impending… panic attack."
Tea companies had collapsed entirely. The plants were still intact. Workers still showed up. But by Kara's decree, no leaves were processed, packaged, or poured. England reeled in devastation. Without the telly, the tea, or the chips, cultural identity collapsed into desperate surrender.
Elvis sat atop a throne made of melted Ferraris, crushed Fabergé eggs, and Queen Victoria's favorite cutlery. The vault grew fatter by the hour, a phenomenon no one tried to explain anymore.
"You all just keep ruling," Elvis said, swirling a glass of gold-flaked bourbon. "I'll keep the vault stacked."
Wanda whispered to Storm, "He might actually be the embodiment of capitalism."
"Or Mammon," Storm muttered.
Kara's harem—Wanda, Jean, Gwen, Rogue, Mystique, and Storm—stood in tailored villain couture, their capes swaying behind them as they followed her into the capital's reformed Grand Assembly Hall.
"England is mine," Kara declared to the silent holographic screens broadcasting across the land. "This island is my fortress. This government now serves me."
All across London, drones whispered her name into the wind. The new national anthem, composed by Gwen and fine-tuned by Jean's mind, boomed from every tower and echoing hallway. It was dramatic. It was horrifying. It was addictive.
The outside world scrambled to respond. Every diplomatic line went dead. Satellites lost signal. The UN sent a delegation. They vanished. American tech giants tried to access British networks. They were met with gigabytes of Elvis singing "Suspicious Minds" in Morse code.
The official voicemail for foreign ambassadors now simply said: "This is Kara Zor-El. Leave a message. I probably won't listen."
And as chaos brewed across the globe, Kara reclined on her lava-heated throne inside the core of Buckingham Palace, legs crossed, tea in hand, Excalibur beside her.
"What next?" she asked.
Gwen raised a brow. "A six-year evil montage?"
"Global manipulation," said Rogue.
"Cultural domination," said Jean.
Wanda tilted her head. "Possible moon destruction."
"Fashion week," Mystique added. "But evil."
Kara grinned and raised her teacup. "Perfect."
Six Years Later
England disappeared from international maps. Access points were erased. Cameras went black. Tourists who arrived were politely—but forcefully—returned with gift baskets and memory loss.
The world forgot England.
Until now.
And then, as the sun rose over a desert where a billionaire named Tony Stark hammered a suit together in a cave, a vibration stirred beneath black marble.
In the silence, deep beneath Buckingham Palace, a voice echoed from gold and lava and iron.
Elvis lifted his golden microphone.
"The Queen's awake, baby."
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